Last Rights Read Free Page B

started young, when she was about thirty. Our doctor, O’Grady, said at the time that she needed to go back to the dry, hot
     climate of India if she was to have any chance of beating it. But she didn’t even want to mention that to Dad. She didn’t
     want to make him give up his business and she would never have left him or us children. But she suffers for that decision.
     ‘I wish you didn’t have to run all the time,’ the Duchess murmured, as she placed the bread and marge in front of me. ‘I wish
     you could have your health back again.’
    I didn’t answer her. What was there to say? Some time, sooner rather than later, the raids would start again and I would run.
     Sure as night follows day. We both knew it.
    I started on the bread and marge, more out of duty than hunger, but it made Mum smile, which was the object of the exercise.
     Then Nancy, or Nan, as we all call her, came in from the yard and, frowning as she almost always is, took over the tea with
     her usual well-meaning bossiness. ‘You’ve got to go and pick up Mr Evans at eleven,’ shesaid to me as, unbidden, she refilled my cup with tea and sugar.
    ‘I know,’ I said, as patiently as lack of sleep would allow. As if I could forget to pick up the deceased who, if indirectly,
     was paying for us all to go on existing.
    ‘You conducting?’
    ‘Yes.’ I always had, ever since Dad died, which is fifteen years ago now. Out in front of the hearse, my wand in my hand –
     the conductor, the master of the final earthly ceremonies. The wand or cane, which is what it looks like to most people, doesn’t
     serve any purpose these days. In the past it was used as a weapon to ward off grave robbers and as a sort of magical tool
     to keep away evil spirits. Hence the dramatic and mysterious name.
    But I knew what she was getting at and I knew that she meant well. These days there aren’t always enough men to carry a sizeable
     coffin like Gordon Evans’s. Sometimes a funeral has to go without a conductor. But not this time.
    ‘Joe and Harry Evans are going to bear with Arthur and Walter,’ I said. ‘They want to do it for their dad.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Nan said acidly, ‘all very well as long as Walter don’t fall over.’
    Mum and I looked at each other and smiled. Although never a part of the business, Nan has always taken what we do very seriously.
     Ever since we’d lost our cousin Eric to the navy, she had been concerned about how we were managing. Eric had driven for us
     for a number of years and was a strong, sure-footed pall-bearer. But he’d been called up so I’d done what I could, which was
     to employ Walter Bridges, a single bloke with badly fitting teeth who,though getting on a bit and, it must be said, partial to a drop or two, is a good enough driver and not too bad a bearer.
     There is also Arthur, our boy, fifteen and nearly six foot tall in his stockinged feet. Dying to have a go at Jerry, Arthur
     can put a good gloss on a coffin, provided he doesn’t drop fag ash over it afterwards. We also got Doris Rosen, our office
     girl, as soon as Eric and another of our blokes, Jim, left for the services. Had she been well enough, the Duchess could have
     managed the office and the bookwork, but most of the time now her arthritis is so bad she can’t do much. More often than not
     Nan has to feed her, put her to bed, turn the pages of her book, take her to the privy … That’s Nan’s job, the Duchess – and
     the cooking and cleaning. Apart from feeding the horses sometimes, she doesn’t have time for the shop and its doings, however
     much she might want to be in there, however much I know she envies Doris – who, in spite of being married, is a lot freer
     than Nan. In some ways, this war has freed a lot of women to do things other than look after men and kids.
    Aggie came back in then and rolled herself a fag on the table. Nan watched her all the time, her hooded eyes, so brown they’re
     almost black, scrutinising her